
"Damnit, Scotty, you set the coordinates wrong again! And what happened to our uniforms?"
[Alex Huber, Stephan Siegrist, and Thomas Huber, left to right, in Queen Maud Land, Antarctica. Read the story of their three new routes here.]

I've been hearing about some very interesting new books in the works, and the one I'm most looking forward to is alpinist Steve House's first book. Called Beyond the Mountain, it will be published in early September by Patagonia Books—House has been a Patagonia "ambassador" for a decade. The book will be comprised of climbing stories loosely organized around House's three expeditions to Nanga Parbat, and it will have 75 photos, including some color. I've worked with Steve on several stories and he's a very strong writer. As the first book from America's premier active alpinist, this should be a winner.
Next month the British Mountaineering Council will host its biannual winter climbing meet in Scotland. I went to the last winter meet, in 2007, and not long ago I was reminded of this superb week when a guy sent me a photo of a familiar-looking cliff. I had attempted a new route on this crag on the final day of the 2007 meet.
We've published the second edition of the Alpine Briefs, the online newsletter from the editors of the American Alpine Journal. Guess that means it's officially a periodical.
Eric Perlman has been submitting clips from his upcoming Masters of Stone VI video to Climbing.com, featuring last summer's record-breaking speed climb of the Nose by Hans Florine and Yuji Hirayama. Three segments are now live, and they're great fun to watch. In any discussion of big-wall speed climbing, you always hear that records are broken not by climbing super-fast but by climbing moderately fast with minimal pauses, and, indeed, Hans and Yuji don't appear to be sprinting: the climbers move methodically; their ropes snag; Yuji forgets to unclip a sling and curses "Merde!"; the two debate who's supposed to move next; Yuji tugs on the rope for slack—at times they seem like two bumblies on a big-wall ascent, yet they're climbing El Cap in less than three hours.
Sunday's forecast for the Front Range called for cold (high about 8°F at 12,000 feet) but no wind. That sounded like a good day for some winter mountaineering, so Paul Gagner and I laid plans for the east ridge of Mt. Bancroft, a 13,250-foot peak I discovered in Dave Cooper's excellent Colorado Snow Climbs. The peak is relatively close to the road (2.5 miles) and has limited avalanche danger. The normal east ridge is a great moderate mountaineering route, with some knife-edge snow ridges, much third-class scrambling, a rappel into a notch, and a very short fifth-class wall to surmount.
When Paul and I arrived at the foot of the ridge, the air was absolutely still, as promised, and both of us kept staring at the large broken wall that forms the right side of the lower ridge. We only had a single 9mm rope, three cams, and one ice axe apiece—just enough for the 5.2 step on the normal route—but the climbing did not look difficult and we decided to give it a try.
This turned out to be a great way to add some technical interest to this mostly non-technical route. We did three long pitches (with a bit of simul-climbing) on good rock, snowy ledges, and frozen turf. Impossible to rate this stuff, but each pitch had a step or two that was at least as hard as the crux of the normal route (photo at left). Because of our limited rack, all of this was must-not-fall terrain, but it was very enjoyable climbing.
The ridge itself was pleasant snow hiking and scrambling. In summer, most experienced climbers wouldn't even need a rope (the rappel could be skirted with moderate down-climbing). But in winter conditions the route had ample appeal. Toward the top, the wind kicked up and clouds began piling up against the Continental Divide from the west. After tagging the summit cairn, we started down and then spotted a circular rainbow in the clouds below us to the north, complete with a faint and tiny brocken spectre—our own shadows cast against the fog.
We weren't lingering for the intriguing atmospherics, however. The wind chill was now well into the negatives, and after a round of bare-handed summit photography my fingers stayed numb until we were halfway back to the car.
I'm not sure how the work of Norio Matsumoto has slipped past me all these years, but I'm grateful to have discovered him now, through the blog of Talkeetna Air Taxi, which has flown Matsumoto into the Alaska Range each winter for the past 10 years. Matsumoto, 36, spends his summers photographing humpback whales from remote islands in southeast Alaska, and his winters photographing northern lights and stunning mountain landscapes from the air and from his base-camp igloo on a glacier in the Alaska Range.
What differentiates Matsumoto's work from other Alaskan mountain photographers is that his images are acquired almost exclusively in midwinter, a time when few humans even see these mountains and glaciers. The photographer spends two months alone on the glacier. The result is the most incredible northern lights photography I've ever seen, as well as rare and gorgeous photos of the Alaska Range giants in midwinter conditions. He's back out there right now, but you can see a terrrific selection of his work at Matsumoto's website, where you can also order prints.
There's a decent interview with the photographer here. I loved Matsumoto's description of his working days (nights) in the Alaska Range: "Get up at noon. Cook ramen and eat. Take some pictures of the alpine glow as the sun goes down, around 3:30 p.m. Go back to the sleeping bag and take some rest. Wake up at 8 p.m., cook ramen and eat. Stay outside from 9 p.m. to 4 or 5 a.m., to wait for/photograph the northern lights. Eat rice crackers, write in journal. Go to sleep at 5 a.m."